Where Are You Going? (back to you)
by IWantYouInMyLife
Summary: Peter hates everybody. It turns out Stiles is NOT everybody, though. (a series of one-shots telling the story of a dangerous werewolf and his devious mate)
1. The Trip

**Author's Note: This is the sequel to the story "What Does it Mean? (it means that you're mine)"**

* * *

The second Peter's plane lands, a mental countdown starts going in his mind.

His leg is bouncing despite his better sense, and he wishes he could hide it better, but by then probably all the first-class of that plane can already tell how desperate Peter is to get out of that plane. They probably think he's afraid of heights, or that he gets sick while airborne, so a few sympathetic glances are being thrown his way, and although they couldn't be farther from the truth, Peter does nothing to correct the assumptions.

It sounds more respectable than the truth, anyway.

How would he have been able to explain that his thoughts are a loop of _stilesstilesstilesstilesstilesstiles_?

He powers through the next eight minutes, getting up and leaving the second the doors are open, rushing out of the plane, thanking a random deity that he had no luggage to reclaim, and so, he can go straight home. If he sort of jogs all the way to the parking lot, well, nobody has to know it.

The feeling of urgency is rising in his chest. His flight got delayed, and although he had no way of predicting or fixing it, Peter feels the need to make up for the lost time now, rushing to find his car on the mass of black cars standing in front of him.

Two minutes later, Peter slides into his car, indescribably happy that the Jag is still in the same conditions as it had been when he left it there six days ago. The last thing Peter needs at the moment is to waste his precious time having to a cab or rent a car. No, Peter mind is focused on the task ahead, so he drops his backpack and jacket on the passager seat, finds the pedal and _floors_ it.

He has only one goal, and a small thing like traffic law isn't going to deter him. Not today.

He glances at the car's display, checking the time, and sees that he's cutting it too close for comfort. He has twenty minutes to get there if he doesn't want to keep Stiles waiting.

_Shit_, Peter thinks, speeding through a red light without blinking, his fingers already moving across the buttons next to the steering wheel, selecting a name, ringing it.

She answers almost immediately. "Peter." Claudia's voice comes through the speakers, loud and rushed. "Please tell me you'll make it."

The plead behind the questions is clear, and Peter finds himself pressing down harder on the pedal. "I'm on my way," he informs, his voice snappier than usual.

"Thank God!" She says, exhaling a deep breath. "Stiles's been miserable without you around."

Perhaps she means that as a reassurement, something that will please Peter, or maybe she is just exhausted from a long week with his unsettled mate... it doesn't matter the motive, was does matter is that Peter knows she doesn't mean it in a bad way, yet her words only serve to fray even further his already distressed nerves. Peter's grip on the steering wheel tighten until his knuckles turn white, and he has to bite back the growl threatening to make its way past his lips.

Knowing Stiles' been miserable raises all his hackles, triggering a protective instinct he hasn't quite managed to get under control even after several months.

"Call the school to warn them that I'll be the one picking him up," he orders instead of telling her to shut up the way he wants to. "I'll be keeping him for the weekend. Is that alright?"

"Sure," Claudia agrees, far too readily, as though she had already known those would be his next words. "I'll tell John—don't worry about him." There's a pause. "Peter, please try to get him to eat something, okay?"

Peter knows his eyes are flashing and his voice sounds lower when he answers. "You got it. I'll take care of him." And it's a fucking promise.

"I know you will," Claudia says softly. "I'll call the school now. I see you on Sunday."

"Bye," he snaps, but she's already hung up on him.

It's okay, though. He has something else to focus on.

* * *

The Jag skids to a halt in front of Stiles' school, and he's only five minutes late, which it's a fucking miracle, but Peter cannot find it in himself to be impressed when he's so impatient, pushing the car's door open and all but jumping off his seat. Goddammit, Peter is slowly turning into the energy ball that is his mate, and he can't even be bothered to regret it.

He walks to the front door, ignoring the looks he gets from the mothers around him. He's not interested in any of them, and it's best if they don't get the wrong idea, so he bypasses them, skillfully rushing pass the bodies in his way until he sees his mate's classroom, with its stupid yellow door and fucking tiny elephants painted all over it.

The stupid door is open, though, so he can see the inside, where there are only three brats still playing, and all the way in the back, sitting down on the floor, reading a book in complete silence, is his kid. Stiles. Peter's heart is racing, and he only notices right then, when his eyes land on his perfect mate.

But he looks sad, and Stiles should never look sad.

"Is there something wrong with that book?" He asks playfully, watching as Stiles instantly raises his head, eyes widening as they meet Peter's.

"Peter!" He shouts, throwing the book aside and running towards Peter, who has barely any time to prepare before he gets an armful of Stiles. "You're back."

Peter reposition Stiles in his arm, putting him in a more comfortable hold, with his arm tight against his mate's middle. "Yeah, you little terror. I told you I would come," he says, bumping their noses together, basking in the moment as his anxiety vanishes. Stiles is in his arms, safe and sound. All the rest can wait. "Did you think I wouldn't come?"

"It's been so loooong, Peter," he whines, batting his eyelashes at Peter, like the little shit he is. "You said it would be fast. Blink and miss it. This wasn't '_blink and miss it,_' Peter. Nuh un. No way. I waited for hours, and you never came back—what took you so long? I wanted to show you my new comic—"

"Breathe, Stiles," Peter orders, even though he's pretty sure he's smiling at the enthusiasm, unable to resist the infectiousness of his mate happiness as he moves his hands around and bobs his head as he speaks without catching a breath. God, he missed this kid so much. It's ridiculous.

"I'm breathing, Peter," he mocks, sticking his tongue out, and Peter's about to tease him about it when Stiles' teacher interrupts them.

"Stiles! What have we discussed about sticking your tongue out at others like that?" She asks, her voice stern.

"That it's a rude gesture and we aren't supposed to do it," Stiles recites dutifully, but Peter sees the glint in his mate's eyes, and he knows the kid doesn't give a crap about what—Melissa, Melanie?—is saying.

When she opens her mouth to add something else, Peter interrupts. "Is okay," he says, ruffling Stiles' hair with his free hand, messing his hair up even further. "He knows that one of these days I'll bite his tongue off if he's not careful."

"No, you won't," Stiles says with a smile, not believing him for a minute, and shit, Peter used to have a reputation, an image, a frightening demeanor, and yet this small piece of a human being just smiled in the face of his threat, confident that the werewolf wouldn't hurt a single strand of his baby-soft hair.

"No, I won't," he concedes, not even bothering to pretend. "I might not give you your present, though." Which, yeah, also a big lie, but he had to try to save some of his dignity.

Stiles' eyes light up. "Present? What did you get me? Is it a toy? Is it? Hun? Is it Batman? Peter!"

"Not saying," Peter sing-songs, turning to the teacher again. "Can I have his backpack, please?" And he throws a little of his charm her way, hoping to smooth things over a bit, knowing it never hurts to keep people on his side. He's rewarded with a wide smile; her scent instantly turning sweeter.

"Sure! I'll get it for you," she says, almost tripping in her rush to go retrieve the backpack.

Stiles tugs at his sleeve. "Hey!" He calls, and when Peter turns back to him, he's frowning. "Tell me about my present. Stop getting distracted—I'm here!"

At that, Peter melts slightly, grinning fondly at his mate, who still doesn't know just how much sway he has over Peter. Stiles is jealous of his teacher, and it's so ridiculous that Peter cannot help himself. He leans down to kiss Stiles' neck, blowing a raspberry against his skin, only to smile when Stiles giggles in his arms, shifting and trying to push him away.

"Yes, you are, kid. Let's get out of here, shall we? Get something to eat?"

Stiles rests his cheek on Peter's shoulder. "Can we have curly fries?"

"Anything you want, kid." Peter agrees softly. "Anything."

* * *

Peter isn't exactly sure when his life had shifted into being a 24/7 daycare center for a single, very active child. Yet, despite all rational odds, that's precisely what he concludes it has become when, the next morning, while his wolf senses tell him that it's still way too fucking early to not be sleeping, a small body climbs over his back to hug him from behind.

"Peter, wake up," Stiles says, shaking him, and it's supposed to be a whisper but they are still working on the whole 'inside voice' with him, and therefore comes out more like a loud whine. "I'm hungry."

"There's food," Peter mumbles against his pillow, refusing to open his eyes. Maybe if he pretends to go back to sleep, his mate will follow suit, and they can get a couple more hours of rest while they still have that possibility.

It's the first time in five nights he's sleeping next to Stiles and, thus, getting any actual rest, so sue him if he tries to stall for a few more moments under the covers.

No such luck, though, 'cause Stiles pokes him at the ribs, with way more force than a six-year-old kid should have. "Nuh un. You have to make pancakes, Peter. It's Saturday, and Saturday is pancake day," he points out, nuzzling his nose against Peter's back, and it's such a wolf thing to do that it almost forces a purr out of Peter.

But making pancakes means getting out of bed, getting up, moving from his current place. "Stiles, just half an hour, hun? Pancakes can wait," he tries to bargain, moving his arm a little so he can reach back and rub Stiles' back.

Stiles laches onto his arm like a baby koala. "You promised."

Two words.

Two words being whispered against his skin and Peter's eyes snap open, all thoughts about going back to sleep crushed to dust because his mate sounds uncertain and it means there's something wrong, and Peter's brain instantly demands that he fixes it.

So Peter shifts until Stiles slides off his back, instantly turning around so that they are facing each other instead. Stiles is kicking the sheets away, still wearing the Batman pajamas that Peter had bought him, looking so small and perfect, those golden eyes shining. Peter's hands move on their own accord, reaching for Stiles and wrapping around him, pulling him closer, settling his face on the crook of his neck, his nose instantly moving to scent his mate. It's comforting to smell that fresh, clean scent coming off of Stiles in a way that nothing else is.

"Hey, what was that? Of course we are gonna have pancakes today, it's our little tradition," Peter says, ignoring the voice in his head that reminds him that something that has been going on for three months can hardly be constituted as a tradition. Stiles says it is, so it is.

Stiles' small hands find their way under Peter's shirt, tracing slow patterns on the space of his back. "You weren't here last weekend," he confesses, sounding guilty as he admits what's truly bothering him, and somewhere inside his rib cage, Peter's heart misses a beat.

He left for six days. He needed to wrap things up in New York after he had moved back to Beacon Hills without even so much as a warning. They talked about it—it isn't like Peter disappeared out of the blue. They spoke on the phone a million times, and Peter drove to pick him up at school the second he landed.

It doesn't mean Stiles took it well. However, other than a sad face and the clinginess, he hadn't said anything about it until now.

"I'm sorry if it seemed too long for you, kid. I tried to do things as quickly as I could to come back," Peter says, pulling back a little so he can look into Stiles golden eyes. "It's over now, okay? I won't have to leave again. I promise."

"It was a lot of days," Stiles insists, pouting.

Too many days, in fact. Peter destroyed all the plates in his old apartment and almost killed two people trying to settle his old contracts. Six days without Stiles is not an experience he's willing to go through again.

"I know," he agrees, carding his fingers through Stiles' hair. "I know, kiddo. But I'm here now, and we'll do pancakes together like always."

Stiles considers the offer for a long moment. "I want chocolate chips."

"Alright."

"And orange juice."

"Okay."

"And bacon."

Peter smiles. "You are_ not_ eating all that," he points out, although they both know that it's not a _no_.

"Yes I am," Stiles says, grabbing one of Peter's hand and moving it until it settles over the chain of his necklace, as he always does when he wants to win an argument. "You said anything, right?"

Stiles' eyes are gleaming with challenge, daring Peter to deny him something after so many days away, and his hand is atop of Peter's, pressing it against his neck and the necklace there, that proves Stiles belongs to him. Only him. It's blatant manipulation, it's what it is, and Peter silently wonders if that's what love feels like, 'cause it just isn't fair for someone to be as perfect as his mate is.

"Yeah, you little shit," he grins, closing his fingers against the cold chain possessively. "I did."

Stiles' smile in response is so big that Peter is pretty sure he sees all of the kid's white teeth at once. It's soft and innocent, and Peter wants to record it just so he can save the memory for his future self. "Peter?"

"Yes?"

"That's a bad word," he says, nudging Peter's ass with the heel of his foot. "If you take me to the arcade, I won't tell mom."

And really, who was Peter to say no to such good blackmailing?

* * *

**AU2: Hey! I'm back!**

**Due to popular demand, I've decided to make a part 2 of this universe. Like it says on the cover, this story will be a series of one-shots covering Peter's and Stiles' lives.**

**Thank you so much for all the love, guys. All the kudos and the comments are greatly appreciated. Always. Xoxo.**


	2. The Truth

**Author's Note: Hello, people! I'm back... this time with feels? A little fluff and a lot of feels. Sorry?**

* * *

Peter hears the footsteps long before there's a knock on his door. He _knows_ who it is, and he also knows that he has nothing to say to her.

Still, despite his personal regards on the matter, he opens the door, knowing better than to ignore his sister in hopes of getting her to fuck off right back to where she came from. That would require a level of self-awareness that Talia does not have.

"What are you doing here, Talia? I don't have time for this," Peter drawls, blocking her way, stopping her from entering the apartment and interrupting his day. He has things to do, and none of these things include entertaining his sister and listening to whatever bullshit she has to say.

"I haven't said why I'm here," Talia points out, raising an eyebrow and giving him a pointed look.

"_Exactly_," he agrees, moving to close the door in her face.

Talia, being the insufferable person she is, prevents it with a single finger, barely exerting pressure — the show-off. "Peter," is all she says, in a stern tone, and it's enough.

"Whatever," Peter concedes, going back to the kitchen and leaving her to close the door behind her. If Talia wants to intrude his house, she can very well lock the door herself — Peter is busy putting away all the food he bought for the weekend. "Don't take anything out of place."

"I wasn't aware you had developed OCD since the last time we spoke."

"I haven't, and it's not polite to belittle people's mental illness," he corrects, failing to admit that everything in his apartment is arranged to cater to a six-year-old, who often wakes up before Peter in the mornings and, as such, needs things to be reachable to him. To distract her, he asks: "You want coffee?"

Talia sighs. "Yes, please," she accepts, pulling a chair from his kitchen table to sit.

Keeping his back to her, Peter turns on the coffee machine and, while the soft noise of it echoes across the room, he carries on with his task, opening the fridge and filling the bottom shelves only with things he knows Stiles will want, keeping his '_health-adult-things_' separate on the top shelf. Peter arranges things methodically, precisely in the same way as he always does, organizing Stiles favorite juices with the type of care that he never applied to his own stuff, wanting everything to be perfect.

Surprisingly, Talia respects his silence and remains where she is, watching him with a heavy stare but keeping her thoughts to herself, for the time being. It's only when Peter puts the last tub of ice-cream away in the freezer, and the machine turns off, the smell of fresh coffee filling the kitchen air, that he resigns himself to the task ahead. It's better this way, anyway — the sooner he gets rid of her, the sooner he can go back to focusing on what's important.

With that in mind, Peter grabs two mugs from his cupboard — mugs he stole from her house when he moved out — and fills them to the brim with piping hot black coffee, forgoing sugar altogether, and sits at the table, carefully sliding the green mug to his sister. Talia accepts the offer with a nod of the head, cupping the mug with both hands but making no further move to take a sip.

For a moment, they both remain in silence — studying the other, waiting to see who would crack first, who would falter under pressure. It's a game they've been playing for all their lives, and Peter is, as always, determined to win.

Perhaps, however, Peter is gripping the mug of coffee in his hand slightly tighter than he should, because he can hear the ceramic grinding in protest, which means that so can Talia.

"I need you back at the house," she finally says, her eyes zeroing in his hands, making a point, telling Peter what he already knew. "I know you decided to have your own apartment—"

"Not this again," Peter groans in protest, thinking about the door to his left and silently wondering if Talia would bother to chase after him if he decided to make a run for it.

Talia knows him too well. "Don't force me to drag you by the neck," she threatens. "And ease up on the mug, Peter. That one is Laura's favorite — I'm taking it back, actually."

Somehow that just makes Peter wants to crush it even more, purely out of pettiness, only so the little brat no longer has it and has to suffer alongside the peasants, who must drink their beverage from an ordinary mug. He doesn't, though, cause he's already saying no to Talia and Peter knows how to pick his battles.

"Naturally." Peter cannot help himself, and his voice gets a little higher when he mocks his sister's brat, but he does pry his fingers off the mug, one by one, slowly and steady. "Wouldn't want to deprive Laura of her favorite things in life, now, would we?"

"No, we would not," she says, ignoring his attempt at rilling her up, and it's always annoying when Talia is in one of those days. Peter likes her indefinitely more when she's in a pissy mood. "And I still need you there this weekend," she says it again — as if Peter had developed some mental problem that required her to keep repeating shit.

"That's too bad. I have previous commitments this weekend, my dear sister."

"More important than your pack?" She asks, tilting her head.

Peter grins. "Yep."

"Your mate—"

"Don't talk about him," Peter snaps, hard and serious. Stiles is not up to debate — he never had been.

"Peter," Talia sighs, seeming to deflate as the word left her mouth. She grabs the mug and takes a long sip. "You keep him hidden from the pack — I don't understand why. He's your mate. Do you think we wouldn't treat him well?"

Peter can't keep the venom from slipping into his tongue, poisoning his words. "Like you treated me?" He asks, narrowing his eyes and leaning back against the chair, putting more distance between them, making his position clear.

"You chose your own path, brother. No one resents you for it, but maybe it's time you stop pretending that it wasn't you who chose to deny your family."

"How dare I act like being born a Hale isn't the best thing that could've happened to me, right?"

"We are the biggest pack in North-America, Peter," Talia says with that reasonable tone of hers that sounds too much like nails screeching on a chalkboard. "You never lacked anything."

It's a lie. It's such a gigantic lie that Peter stills for a moment, wondering if she had really gone there or if his mind is playing some sort of trick on him, but ultimately decides to allow the comment to slide. He has a lot to say, a whole book of evidence to prove her wrong, to dismantle the shiny image of the Hales, but it's Friday and Stiles is about to arrive, and Peter wants nothing more than for her to leave, to disappear from his place and stop infecting the whole area with her scent.

"What do you want, Talia?" He asks instead, taking a sip from the still hot coffee and trying to ignore the whisper in his mind that says his question is far too close to a defeat, an opening.

"Deaton will carve new runes around the preserve during the weekend," she explains, tense. "He'll need blood from all family members. I need you to be there."

_Ah_, there it is.

"Couldn't you have led with that?" He mocks, although he already knows he'll give Talia what she wants.

Predictably, her eyes flash. "No, I couldn't have," she snaps, her voice sharper. "Will you come?"

"Sunday," Peter concedes. "I'll take Stiles back to his house and drive straight to the preserve." When Talia opens her mouth to protest, he raises a hand to stop her. "You only need my blood, dear sister. There's no need for me to be present for the whole ceremony, and you know that, so let's cut the sentimental bullshit. I'll give you all the blood you want on Sunday — you have my word."

"Perhaps I would've liked to have more than your blood," she murmurs like she's confessing something, like Peter's breaking her heart, like she gives a crap.

And, that's it. Peter stands up, pushing his chair back and dropping his mug on the table in his rush, the liquid sloshing around and spilling over the rim a little.

_How dare she?_

"Leave," he orders, feeling his own eyes flashing. "Leave. _Now_."

Talia winces, taking her hands off her mug and also standing up. "Peter—"

"I don't give a shit. I won't ask again. Leave, or I'll throw you out the window." And he would, too. At the moment, he certainly wants to — badly.

His sister opens her mouth to say something — to shove her foot in her mouth again, no doubts — but stops when they both hear the clear noise of a car approaching the building and Stiles' voice babbling loud enough to be heard over the sound of the engine. It's a cue — if there had ever been one.

"Yeah, I—Of course. I should be going," Talia mumbles, obviously smelling Peter's anger clouding the air. "Tell St—Nevermind. I'll see you Sunday, Peter."

The car stops, and two heartbeats can be heard entering the building. "I'll be there," he confirms, waving a hand to the door, waiting for her to see herself out, unwilling to play the magnanimous host after the shit show that her visit had been.

To her credit, Talia knows how to make a quiet exit. She nods, accepting his silent criticism without another word and turns to leave, unlocking the door, opening it and walking away with not as much as a parting glance, softly closing the door and going down the stairs. Peter appreciates that, at least. She's purposely avoiding the elevator and Stiles, and it's an act of respect to his wish to keep his mate away from Pack business.

Only two minutes separated the moment Talia leaves his apartment to the moment Claudia knocks on his door, and Peter uses them to take a few deep breaths and get his act back together. The last thing he needs is for Claudia to think he's in no condition to watch her child.

The good news is that Peter has always been a master at faking his way to success.

So, when Claudia Stilinski does knock, Peter already has a mask firmly settled into place — a wide smile stretching his lips and a glint in his eyes that never failed him when it came to women.

"Hey," Peter greets as he opens the door, his eyes immediately going to his mate, who's standing next to his mother, freshly showered and smelling like oranges, as he always did, and it does something to Peter. Maybe it's the necklace hanging in plain sight from his neck, or the strong, clean scent coming from him in waves, or the way those golden eyes lock with Peter's straight away, seeming as though they see far too much.

"Up!" Stiles demands without even a word of greeting, making grabby hands at Peter, acting like he's still two instead of six, but his voice is strong, and Peter is helpless to resist it.

He scoops up his mate, expertly settling him on his hip and keeping him there with only one arm. "Hello, my little troublemaker," Peter greets again, only way softer this time, whispering the words to his mate only, trying to keep his fake smile in place, to erase his sister's visit from his mind.

Stiles' heartbeat is fast and he smells of excitement, but there's a knowing look in those eyes, and he goes straight to the kill. "What's going on, Peter?" He asks, his hands reaching to cup Peter's cheeks without hesitation, and the werewolf holds back a flinch.

_God_, he's an idiot for lying to mate.

"Nothing, kid," he says, wanting to kiss Stiles' forehead, but knowing better than to close any more of the distance between them when he had so much to hide, to protect. "We usually say hi when we arrive at someone's house."

Stiles' mouth opens to retort, to give a smart comeback, no doubts, but _Peter_ is smart enough to avoid that at all costs, so he grabs one of Stiles' hand in his and turns to face Claudia.

"Hey, I'm sorry about this," he says, giving her a wide smile. "Please, come in."

Claudia is smiling, though, not bothered by the less than polite welcome. "It's okay," she says, waving away his apology. "To be honest, I find it cute how he goes straight to you — he's usually such a reserved kid around adults."

And it's a testament to Stiles' focus that he doesn't say anything about that, and, instead, keeps his eyes firmly glued to Peter's face. It's unnerving, his stare, so Peter tries to ignore it.

"It's the bond," Peter mouths quietly to her, although he's sure she already knows that. "And it's so recent, too. I fear it won't stop being that way for a while." And it's another lie, 'cause he fears nothing — he craves it, wants it, seeks it like a madman, hoarding Stiles' attention all to himself without a single apology.

"I'm sure," Claudia agrees with a small smile, sounding as though Peter's unspoken words were heard loud and clear. "Well, I'll be on my way. Jonh is taking me to dinner today," she confesses, and her heart skips a beat. She raises an arm and gives him Stiles' bag. "Here — I don't think we forgot anything, but you can always call me if you need something."

They've gone through that same speech a few times. "I know," Peter says, nodding. "We'll be fine, though. Don't worry — enjoy your date. I know Jonh doesn't have many days off like this."

Claudia huffs. "You can say that again. Anyway, I'll be going. Good luck with this one," she says, reaching to ruffle Stiles' hair and Peter has to resist the impulse to take a step back and let her hand fall in the empty space. He cannot deny the woman her own child — no matter how much he wants to. "Stiles, mommy's going. You'll be okay?"

His mate takes his eyes off him for a moment. "Yep. Bye, mommy." He leans forward to hug her. "Don't mess with my puzzle pieces. I'm still putting them—"

"Okay, okay. I'm aware of your important puzzle — calm your jets. I won't take anything out of place, I promise. Everything will be just as you left when you come back."

"Mom, I'm serious!" Stiles whined, pouting in protest to Claudia's amused face.

"God, you get that dramatic side from your father — I swear, Stiles," she jokes, kissing him softly on the cheek. "I'm not joking, relax. It'll be fine. See you Sunday, baby." She turns and squeezes Peter free arm. "Take care, Peter. Anything you need—"

"Of course," Peter agrees. "We'll be great, though. No need to worry."

And with that, she bids her farewell and leaves, which means there's only Peter and Stiles, alone in the apartment, with no buffer or distractions, and his mate pounces like a wolf. In another situation, Peter might've been proud.

"You're smiling funny," Stiles accuses, freeing his hand to settle it on Peter's face again. "I don't like it."

"You don't like my smile?" Peter tries, walking them to the living room, bypassing the kitchen entirely, not wanting to think about Talia again. He drops Stiles' bag on the center table. "I paid some money on my dentist to have teeth this white — It would be a shame to have wasted it."

Peter's speaking — his mouth is moving, and the words are coming out of it — but it's harder than it should've been to brush aside his mate's serious concern, and he has to bite his tongue to keep the other words he wants to say trapped inside his mouth. There's a magnetic energy about Stiles — a powerful calling that comes from his very soul, and it draws Peter in like a moth to a flame.

"Are you upset?" Stiles asks, ignoring his rambling about white teeth, his eyes darkened with concern. "We can order curly fries if you are — they always make me happy."

God, he's so fucking precious. Peter wants to rip Talia apart, piece by piece, with his bare hands for daring to come minutes before his mate's arrival. Their time together is precious and sacred, and Talia had no right to sour his mood when he should be on top of his game for Stiles.

"We can order curly fries if you want, kid, but I'm alright. Don't worry about me, 'kay? How about you tell me about your day at school, instead?"

Peter feels the couch digging at the back of his knees, and so, he allows his body to sag, to relax. He sits down, letting Stiles loose on his lap. The skin proximity helps, even if there are layers and layers of clothes separating their skin — all which Peter desperately want to rip away, so he can squeeze Stiles to his chest, feeling his heartbeat against his own. He doesn't do that, though, 'cause he's Peter Hale, and control is his first, second _and_ last name.

Stiles is not amused. "You're lying," he points out, matter factly and without a blink. He's not fucking around. "I can feel it."

"_What?_" Peter asks, disoriented. That's new. He can feel it?

"I can tell when you're lying. I just know it," he says, then orders. "Tell me."

"People can't feel other people's feelings, Stiles," Peter corrects, hoping his pounding heartbeat isn't noticeable. He has to set things straight, though. Even if Stiles is his mate — and God, he is — Peter's whole being rebelled against the idea of someone knowing him so well, feeling his shit, knowing when he was lying. That's too close to restrains, to conditions, to the kind of openness that Peter ran away from his entire life.

Stiles doesn't understand any of that. "I can," he repeats, deadly serious, and Peter can't do that, not right then, not with Stiles.

So Peter chooses the easy way out — he lifts Stiles from his lap, places the kid on the couch and gets up, taking a few steps back for good measure. "No, you can't, kid," Peter says, his voice syrupy and patronizing. It's a denial, a foot down, a demarcation line in the proverbial sand, and from there, Peter knows what to expect. He can deal with tempers, or whines, or anger, or any other shit Stiles throws his way, much better than he can deal with searching stares, concerned voices, and attempts at helping.

Only Stiles goes the opposite way. He looks confused and, somehow, even more concerned. "Are you gonna cry?"

What? _Cry?_ No, Peter isn't gonna cry.

_How could Stiles think that?_

"No—I, of course I ain't—Stiles, what are you saying? I'm good, kid," Peter stumbles over the words, blindsided by the honest question. It's only then that Peter notices that his wolf is prowling at his insides, desperate to come out, to search, to hunt, to attack, to protect, to fight something. Anything.

Stiles gets out of the couch and starts to close the distance between them, and for some reason, Peter takes a step back to each one Stiles takes forward. It's close enough to running away that it bothers him, that it triggers something inside him, a memory, perhaps.

Stiles keeps on coming, though. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened," Peter says, tasting the lie, feeling a certain tightness in his chest that can only mean one thing. He doesn't want it, however. Peter spent too much time perfecting his control to just give it away to—

"You're still lying."

Peter back reaches a wall, and he's trapped. He's a werewolf, a lawyer, a genius, an adult, and he's trapped by a kid. "Stiles, let's just—"

"What does this necklace means?" Stiles asks, pulling on the chain, stopping when they are close enough to touch, to taste the other in the air.

And the wolf is too close to the surface, watching, demanding, flashing behind his eyes, so Peter grows the answer in a low and rumbling voice. "It means that you're mine. _Only_ mine." The words taste like a victory in his tongue — probably because they are the truth.

The possessiveness doesn't seem to bother or surprise his mate, who's still being unusually quiet and thoughtful. "I think it means that you are mine, too," he confesses, and he's so young, so innocent, and he knows absolutely nothing about what it means to belong and to have a man like Peter. How could he, when he's still a child who has only seen the very best Peter had to offer thus far. "Doesn't that kinda mean you have to not lie to me?"

It doesn't. Peter's allowed to lie to his heart content if he wants to — until his voice dies out and his throat closes — only it doesn't feel like it to him. Not right there, not with Stiles so close to him.

It's a conundrum, and there's no right answer.

Peter knows which one he wants, though.

The one crawling up his skin, up his spine, all the way to the recesses of his brain. And it's that one which makes him goes down to his knees, so they are face to face, at the same height, looking right inside the other's eyes. _That_ answer is the one that compels Peter to reach out to touch the onyx triskelion.

"The truth is not always the best answer," Peter warns, ignoring the side of his brain that tells him that's not the correct thing to say to a kid.

"Try me." Stiles is all bravado, probably repeating the words that he heard someone say in another circumstance. It's enough for Peter's wolf to cave like a little bitch, though.

"I didn't have the best day," he admits, and his voice cracks as his mind registers a feeling akin to pain. "My sister came to visit me, and we don't always get along. It's hard to see her, I guess. I—I... It's nothing, though—"

"You don't like her?"

Like her? Peter loves Talia, but that's not what this is about.

"I do like her, kiddo. But she's not an easy person to like, and neither am I — if we're being honest here. My parents…" _Shit_, was Peter speaking about his parents? "They raised us to be competitors, to always try to be the best."

"And who's the best?" Stiles asks, and it _burns_. The question is a dagger ripping through Peter's chest, tearing him open, cutting him apart.

It's unbearable — the truth.

"The best?" Peter repeats, breathing the question into the air separating them both, letting the words hang for a while, blinking away the heat in his eyes. What kind of torture was that? What sort of humiliation was that, which had him on his knees, confessing to his mate, his soulmate, his kid? "My parents chose Talia, Stiles. They chose her instead of me, alright? It was… a long time ago. Too long, sometimes."

Long enough for Peter to know that there had never been a doubt in their minds about who was to become the Alpha of the family, to be precise. _That_ long.

He's so lost in his thoughts, in his overwhelming feelings and sensations, that he doesn't see Stiles moving, Stiles throwing his arms around Peter's neck, Stiles hugging him close — hard and tight. He does, however, feel the moment Stiles kisses his cheek, pressing his lips against Peter groomed stubble.

"I think you're the best, Peter," Stiles whispers, using his inside voice for once, which is honest to God a miracle for him, but Peter is too busy to notice that. Too busy paying attention. "Not better than your sister. Just… the best, 'kay?" He pauses, and Peter holds his stupid breath. "You're _my_ favorite, Peter. My best friend. Don't be sad."

The crazy thing is: Stiles means it. He does. He thinks Peter is the best person to walk across the earth, and it's humbling in a way that Peter cannot describe using the vast vocabulary he has at his disposal — perhaps 'cause it's a brand new feeling for him.

A new spark that ignites in his soul for his mate alone.

"You're my favorite, too," Peter mumbles, hugging Stiles as tight as he dares, breathing in his scent, and even though the words are true, they're also so insignificant next to what he really means, to the words locked in the back of his throat. They are enough for now, though.

They have time.


	3. The Park

"No! I refuse."

It's hard to say no, but a man has to draw a line somewhere, has to establish some unbreakable limits for himself, otherwise, he'll stand for nothing at all, and that's not acceptable, not to Peter Hale. Keeping that in mind, Peter puts his foot down and refuses to yield, even if it means going against his mate. Even if means closing his eyes and trying to erase the pleading look Stiles has plastered across his perfect face.

"Peter," Stiles cries, the pout evident in his voice and it tugs at the strings of Peter's heart. God, it hurts like a bitch to deny him.

The soft voice seeps into Peter's mind, and suddenly it's hard to remember why he was so against the request in the first place.

And still... Couldn't his mate choose anything more dignified?

"No. Not the park, Stiles," Peter refuses once again, straining the words past his clenched jaw. "No."

He should've known better than to expect his mate to play fair. There was a reason they were connected, after all, and it shows quite clearly when Peter hears the soft footsteps of his kid against the linoleum only seconds before small hands grasp at his knees.

"Please," Stiles begs. This time, when he speaks, the words come from inches away, and they are accompanied by the rush Peter always feels when his mate's scent envelopes his senses.

Peter sighs, opening his eyes. "Why must you mingle with those insufferable kids?" He asks, defeated. It may not have been a green light, but it's also not a rejection, and from the look on Stiles' face, the kid's all too aware of that. "I'm quite positive that I can feel my brain cells committing suicide whenever you force me to stay in that place for longer than five minutes."

Stiles smiles. "You're just grumpy," he says fondly. "Scott's going, and I want to go, too."

"Whatever is there to do at that park, anyway?" Peter grumbles, ignoring the part about the other child. Stiles' best friend made a rock seem like a top rated conversationalist. "Because if the allure is a place to run, I would be happy to cut you loose in the Preserve. Plenty of room to run there."

_Bingo_.

His mate's expression shifts from exasperation to curiosity in a flash. "Could we?" Stiles asks, his eyes wide and amazed.

"We? I'm sure I said you, not us," Peter corrects, going against his better senses and reaching forward to ruffle Stiles' hair, allowing his hand to just stay there. Touching, always touching. "Nevertheless, yes, of course, we can run in the Preserve. I'll be happy to take you there. At least it's quiet, and there's nobody there to disturb us."

"I want that!" Stiles demands, leaning against Peter's touch absentmindedly. His focus is all directed to the conversation, but he can't seem to help but be drawn to Peter, wanting to be closer, to prolong the contact. It's innocent, distracted, and all the more dangerous for it. "Why haven't we run together?"

Possibly because Peter isn't sure he would be able to control himself in an environment where Stiles would start to run, in the woods, fragile and vulnerable, while Peter is tasked with being the chaser. Too much of that resembles a hunt, something werewolves would do together, and it makes him want it so badly... which is precisely why he won't do it.

Peter's wolf would like nothing better than to be allowed to chase after its mate, wild and free, in his family Preserve, with nobody else there to intervene and nothing but the noises of the wood and Stiles' intoxicating scent surrounding him.

He wanted it, maybe too much to allow it.

"I don't think you can keep up with me," he says instead, wishing to provoke Stiles away from that line of thought. This is precisely the sort of idea he shouldn't be encouraging — not while his mate is still a kid, at least.

"Hey! I can, too."

"Nope, I don't think so. Look at your little legs — I'm much taller than you, my little troublemaker."

Stiles pouts, pushing his hands down to propel himself up and into Peter's lap. With no notion of personal space whatsoever, the kid leans forward until their faces are so close together, Peter almost has to struggle to not get cross-eyed.

He wraps his arms around Stiles. "You rascal."

"Ras-cal? What does that mean?"

"It means that you really _are_ a troublemaker of the highest caliber and that I should be awarded a medal for putting up with you all the time," he says, knowing the fondness in his eyes betray his true feelings for the kid.

Indeed, Stiles doesn't even blink. "You keep saying that," he giggles, reaching to grab a fistful of Peter's collar, holding the fabric in his tiny hands, keeping Peter trapped in his hold. "But mum says you spoil me, and that you like me loads."

Peter's nose wrinkle. "Does she, now? Well, she's obviously mistaken. I never said anything about liking you, you impossible child." He shrugs, going for an unbothered look. "In fact, I can't seem to remember who you are? What's your name again? Lucas? David? I can't recall; how weird."

"Peter!" Stiles pouts. "Stop! You know who I am."

"Me?" Peter asks, pointing at his own chest and raising a brow. "I have no idea. Did you invade my house, sir?"

"My name is—"

"What? I can't understand you!"

That's enough to drive Stiles insane. He shakes Peter back and forth with the hand still gripping his shirt, squirming in place. "Sti—"

Peter bites back a laugh, pushing his lips together to try to keep the illusion of seriousness. "Steve?" He guesses, keeping his body loose so that Stiles has an easier time shaking him. Their noses bump together, and Peter can't help but reach forward for a flash to nibble at the tip of Stiles' button nose, barely scratching the skin with his teeth. "Stuart?"

"STILES!" He shouts, rushing to get the word out before he could be interrupted again. "Stiles! That's my name. Stuart is a stupid name, anyway."

It's impossible to hold down the laughter bubbling inside him at that. Stiles sounds so petulant, pushing his bottom lip out, face all scrunched up in exasperation as Peter kept preventing him from speaking, and God, it's adorable. Stiles is already a gorgeous kid, all fair skin, and white teeth, and soft hair, and huge, bright golden eyes, but like this, up close, with no distractions and Peter's entire focus zeroed in on him, everything feels dilled up to a hundred — as if his allure is being magnified ten times over.

So he laughs, cupping Stiles' hand with his own to get his mate to stop shaking him. It's a full body laugh, the kind that comes from deep within and seems to roll across one's entire system, and it feels incredible. It's the sort of thing that happens to Peter only when he's around Stiles.

"God, kid. You are something else, alright," he chuckles once he's able to speak. "What's wrong with Stuart?"

"Peter! My name isn't Stuart!" Stiles insists, pushing Peter's head down until their foreheads touch.

And Peter's eyes soften instantly. "I know, kid. Of course I know," he assures, his voice going deeper with each other. He inhales, and the air is completely coated in Stiles' scent, fresh and amazing, and it becomes a struggle not to flash his eyes at him, not to let the wolf out for a moment so that Stiles can see it. Keeping this big secret from his mate will never _not_ be nearly impossible, and it's moments like this that tug at Peter's self-control. "I know exactly who you are, Stiles."

Stiles lets out a humph. "You better," is all he says, although he doesn't move to put any distance between them, so Peter considers it a victory, regardless. "And you owe me. I still want to go to the park."

Ugh, great. Couldn't he have forgotten about it?

Perhaps Peter could distract him with a movie? There has to be something on Netflix that his mate will want to watch, right?

* * *

There wasn't.

They are at the goddamn park. Of course they are.

Stiles ran away the second he saw other kids, and Peter was left to suffer at the bench with the other adults who also got wrapped into driving to that awful place on such a beautiful day.

A woman is sitting at the end his bench, and she's watching him without bothering to pretend otherwise, her stare curious and hungry. Peter knows that stare, knows what it means, but he's hardly in a position to walk away, so he remains where he is and prays that she's married.

His half-hearted attempts at praying are completely disregarded, however, when she slides close and smiles in his direction. "Hey, do I know you? I just… you seem familiar. I'm Amy, by the way."

She's is at least eight years his senior, and not even close to his league, which is why Peter is quite perplexed by the awkward attempt at flirting. Did the woman truly believe that Peter would fall prey to her pathetic fumblings or was that just a terrible waste of both of their time?

"I don't think so," Peter says, forcing himself to remain polite. He doesn't turn to face her, however, watching Stiles with all the attention his mate deserves. "I'm Peter. Peter Hale."

"Is he yours?" She asks, and he can see from the corner of his eyes that she's following his line of sight to Stiles.

"Yes," Peter purrs. The human is beyond stupid, but she does ask a good question, and Peter is delighted at the chance to claim his mate openly.

"How lovely. The boy in the swing, over there, is Arthur, my youngest. Don't you just love seeing them running around?" She asks cheerfully. "They look so happy."

Peter barely has the presence of mind to keep from rolling his eyes at the cheesy display of uncontrolled emotions. "I'm not overly fond, no."

Her eyes widen, and she looks shocked — as if the mere idea is inconceivable. "You don't like children?"

Peter sneers. "Did I stutter? No? Then I shall not waste my time repeating myself."

"Why did you decide to have one, then?"

"Have one?" Peter asked, raising a brow. "You think I look old enough to be a father of one of these brats?" He is only twenty-four, for Christ's sake.

"An older brother?"

"Not likely."

He could see the confusion settling in on her face as he dodges the real question she wants to ask but can't seem to bring herself to. It's not as though Peter has a label to give her — his relationship with Stiles is complicated. Or maybe, Peter does have a label — several of them, truly — but none that she's likely to understand or accept. So he chooses to prolong her suffering, his face settled into a blank mask, giving nothing away.

It's none of her business, in the first place.

Then, Peter sees _them_ arriving.

The McCalls. The dynamic duo. The reason Peter is suffering through a painful conversation with this unhinged woman.

In reality, Scott isn't the problem. Yeah, he's an A grade annoying fucking child, and Peter already has to put up with Talia's brats often enough that it leaves him merciless for random kids Stiles chose to befriend. But he's still just a kid. One single kid, and thus, not the actual problem, in Peter's opinion.

No, it's not Scott who Peter objects to this strongly — although he still wishes Stiles had better taste than to pick the slowest kid in the yard. It's the person who came with the kid that Peter cannot fucking stand. The self-entitled prick who, more often than not, trailed behind Scott, running his mouth about shit he had no hopes of understanding, and it clashes with Peter agenda because he's trying to abstain from killing anyone in this horrid little county.

The memory of Stiles saying that he could, though, that the man was a jerk, the implication that no one would miss him... Well, that was still so fresh in his mind, so loud and clear, as if his mate had spoken the words only yesterday, and they trigger an itch in the back of Peter's neck — a nearly dismissable need for the hunt, the blood. Nearly.

He's so distracted, he misses the man walking all the way to him.

"Hale," he greets, the words clipped and short as always.

Peter doesn't bother to turn his head up. "McCall," he says evenly, still keeping his eyes on Stiles, hoping the agent would take the hint and move to sit as far away from him as possible.

Of course, that would've been a sensible behavior, and Peter is starting to think the man is incapable of as much. It comes as not that big of a surprise when McCall drops his weight into the bench next to him, sitting between Peter and the annoying woman from before.

"Are John and Claudia around?"

"No, Stiles is with me today."

"With you? It's Friday," the man points out, as though Peter is unaware of the date.

"And?"

"Nothing, I guess," he says, too casually. "I thought Stiles would want to stay with his parents since they have a free day."

Peter hopes his smile conveys some positive emotion that he's absolutely not feeling, because he's maybe five seconds away from reaching for the man's neck and squeezing it until he damages the vocal cords there permanently. It shouldn't be possible for one single person to be so irritating, and yet, there he is, still sitting and breathing, and proving Peter's predictions wrong merely by existing.

"Is there a point to this... conversation?" Peter asks, struggling to find the appropriate word to use.

McCall pushes the fringe off his eyes. "It's polite behavior, Hale," he says, acting as though he makes a point to always be the most upstanding citizen Beacon Hills has ever seen. "Are you unfamiliar with it?"

_Is this some sort of torture?_

"I'm sure a man of your caliber," Peter drawls, allowing his tongue to wrap around the words in a way that leaves no questions of what he truly meant to say, "has more important business to attend than babysitting. Or is the FBI no longer in need of your invaluable service?"

A glint of anger flashes in McCall's eyes, and Peter comes close to purring in satisfaction. Talia so often denies him the pleasure of a good showdown, being the dull, unbearable person she is, and Peter misses the chance to show off his bred and born talent.

"Maybe it would interest the FBI to know why a grown man is constantly following a six-year-old around, Hale. Ever think about that?"

Oh, playing dirty so soon. How predictable. "Is that jealousy I hear, McCall?" Peter teases, batting his eyelashes. "If you wanted to ask me out, you simply had to say so. This posturing isn't as charming as you might believe it to be, I must say."

"Ask you—you son of a—," McCall splutters, chocking on the words and turning purple in a vaguely concerning way, and Peter bites back a satisfied grin.

Christ, why must most man be so obviously unresolved in their own sexuality?

It's beyond hilarious to watch the man grasp for words for a moment, and Peter _does_ think about interrupting him to say some even more undignified comments running through his mind. However, before he has the chance, Stiles and his faithful sidekick show up. They are sweaty and covered in sand, and Scott has an unidentifiable glob of green shit plastered on his face.

As usual with kids, they completely ignore the dense atmosphere and go straight to the point, bypassing any sort of pleasantries.

"Peter, tell him I'm telling the truth," Stiles demands, shoving his wet hair out of the way with his dirty hands.

Well, that seems simple enough. "Stiles is telling the truth," he lazily repeats the words at Scott, watching in amusement as the kid's face scrunch in frustration.

"He didn't even tell you what he said to me!" Scott complains, seeming to be one wrong word from stomping his feet in protest.

"Very well. What did you say?" The question is directed towards his mate, who's already grinning in advance, tasting the sweet victory in the air. He probably knows how unlikely it is that Peter will go against whatever tale he's told, even if it is a lie.

"I was telling him that you let me drive the Batmobile," Stiles explains, rushing the words out. "Again."

"I've told you that my car is not—"

"Peter!"

He rolls his eyes, giving up. "Yes, my little troublemaker, is that what you wanted me to say? I have allowed you to put your disgusting ice-cream hands on my leather upholstery. More than once, despite my better senses."

Stiles ignores the entire sentence, merely smiling smugly in Scott's direction while the kid's eyes widen in shock. The McCall spawn had most likely expected Peter to deny it, and his little mind can hardly seem to comprehend what was going on.

"You let a child drive your car?" The McCall progenitor demands, turning to glare at Peter, probably under the delusion that it serves to frighten him.

"Absolutely. All on his own, too. Why not, don't you think? After all, a child of his stature who manages to control the pedals and the steering wheel at the same time, while watching the road ahead, surely earned the right to drive wherever he pleases."

Peter pronounce the words in a slow drawl, exaggeratedly nodding his head as he speaks, doing a very nice job at making the agent understand that he's an idiot who doesn't deserve to waste the earth precious resources. It almost too good when the man hands curls into fists, and he looks one second away from resorting to violence.

"You—" McCall starts, only to be interrupted by his own son.

"I want to drive too!" The kid screams, in a pitchy, annoying voice, and Peter barely has the presence of mind to keep himself from wincing in response as he shifts in place. "Can you take me? If Stiles can, then I should get to drive it as well."

Which is a flawed argument at best, honestly. There's just no way Peter is letting that little monster touch his precious car, especially not with those gross, dirty hands. It should be obvious. That the kid thought of himself at the same level as Stiles only serves to show how unaware he is to the worlds of differences between them.

"I don't think so."

"What?" He cries. "Why?"

"Because, as your father so generously pointed out, a child is not allowed to drive a car and I'm far too handsome to go to jail," Peter explains, ignoring the incongruence and turning to face his mate. "Are you ready to go? I thought we could stop at the grocery and buy the ingredients to make mac'n'cheese, if you'd like it."

His words cause a ripple. Stiles jumps in excitement, making a loud noise of agreement at the same time, which, in turn, causes Scott to frown and pout, clearly sensing Stiles' impending absence. They both scream "_Yes!_" and "_No!_" in unison, and it would be amusing, but Peter's patience is starting to run thin, and he wants to go home.

He gets up from the bench, and, in a single move, scoops his mate into his arms, ignoring the sand falling from his body. "Great. Let's go."

"No, wait," Scott whines, shaking his head. "Stiles, we were going to finish building the ship."

"Dude! It's mac'n'cheese," Stiles says, wrapping his legs around Peter's middle and settling into place without another prompt. Peter tries to not feel smug about it but fails horribly. "I gotta. We'll start again tomorrow at school, yeah? I promise."

The fight leaves Scott's body. "Not cool, dude. I'm much better than noodles," he complains, but sounds resigned already. He rubs his face with his hands, and Peter swears to himself that he'll get Stiles in a bath the second they get to his apartment. "Whatever, I'll see you tomorrow."

"Mac'n'cheese, Scotty. Mac'n'cheese," is all Stiles says, waving goodbye to his best friend.

Scott turns to his father. "Dad, can we get mac'n'cheese?"

Peter takes that as his cue to leave. Without a single word to the man, he turns and leaves, noticing that his mate also failed to say goodbye to McCall and wondering if he did that when he was with his parents as well.

_God_, it doesn't matter right now. Peter just wants to leave that infernal park and go home, where nobody is dirty, and his mate's attention is focused on him and him alone.

"Can I drive?" Stiles asks, tightening his hold on Peter's neck, clearly prepared to fight for his right to remain where he is.

"As long as we get the hell out of here, kid, you may do whatever," Peter agrees, resigned to the fact that his Jag would need a wash after today. "I need a drink or five."

Stiles hums happily, unbothered by his sour mood. "You're still grumpy."

"You know me, kiddo."

"Yep. Can we get marshmallows, too?"

"Smores?" Peter guesses, fishing his keys from his pockets.

Stiles nods, laying his head on Peter's shoulder. He's already sagging in the werewolf's arms, probably more tired than he was letting it show.

"Yeah, baby. We can get whatever you want," Peter confirms what his mate already knows, opening the door of his car and maneuvering them inside as best as he can without shifting Stiles. "Try to get some sleep 'till we get there. I'll wake you up."

The leather smell of his car mingles with the scent of Stiles' sweat, and for the first time in hours, Peter relaxes, fading back into a comfortable atmosphere. He's not a very social person, and it irritates him to be forced to interact with so many annoying people at once, without having his mate by his side, at least.

Stiles nuzzles his neck, all but pushing his face into the curve there. "I wanted to drive," he argues, but it's weak, and he's not making any moves to turn around, so Peter takes it as the useless protest it is.

"Hush, Stiles. Just take a break, kid," he says, starting the car with one hand and sliding his hand under his mate's shirt, rubbing his back with the other. The point of direct, skin-to-skin contact helps to settle him even further. "We can do this any day, there's no need to get anxious. We have time."

So much time. Years and decades and their wholes lives, if Peter had any say on it.

It seems to do the trick. "'kay," Stiles slurs in agreement, sound close to sleep already. "Wake me for the mac'n'cheese."

Peter chuckles. "I wouldn't dream of letting you miss it, baby."

And that's it.

The car is purring under his hand, his mate is drifting to sleep in his arms, the sun is no longer burning Peter's skin, and it all slides back into place, just like that.

It's perfect.

Seriously, though, fuck that park.


	4. The Fight

**Author's Note: Guess who hasn't updated in a while? Me. Guess who is here with a 5k update as a bribe? Also me. **

* * *

Peter is tired.

Scratch that, Peter has long passed such mundane emotion and has delved into a new, previously unknown territory of exhaustion. He's done. He wants to drop this entire thing, go back to his apartment, and catch at least fifteen hours of uninterrupted sleep. It's what he needs, and Peter is ready to fight to get his way.

"Enough," he says, tilting his head and stretching his tight neck muscles. "Obviously, this isn't working. I'm not going to waste any more of my time with this."

Talia doesn't like his answer. Surprise, surprise. "We can't just allow it—"

"We?" Peter mocks, quirking a brow. "Oh no, dear sister. _You_ can't allow it. I'm not the Alpha and none of this mess is mine, remember? I — the lowly Beta — will be going home to take a much-deserved nap and a fucking shower."

"Peter! We don't have time for your drama right now," Talia snaps, grinding her teeth. "You won't be going anywhere until we figure out where the Omega is heading."

"It _is_ one Omega, Talia. Aren't you the one always preaching to high heavens that we are the biggest pack in North-America? Surely the creature is just going on its way."

"Going on its way? What nonsense is this? You're the one who says we can't allow threats to grow!"

"Yes," Peter agrees, drawing out the word lazily, hopefully telling Talia in no uncertain terms what are his thoughts on her IQ. "And what do you insist on doing? _Fucking nothing_. Which is exactly why I have lost the last forty-eight hours of my life running in these woods with you, searching for a single Omega as though it carries the answers of the universe. Either we do this my way, or I'm going home."

"Your way is cornering them and murdering the person in cold blood," Talia points out needlessly, as though Peter could've forgotten of his own damn suggestion.

"As you've said it, dear sister. Threats shouldn't be allowed to grow."

"We don't know why they are here, Peter. This isn't how we operate."

"No, Talia, this isn't how _you_ operate!" Peter growls, losing his patience. God, he's dirty and tired and so fucking done with his sister's hypocritical speech. "And look where it got you? If your way is so fucking amazing, why aren't you here with any of your other Betas? Why me? Why drag me from my bed to run with you? Hun? Maybe — just fucking maybe — it's because you know that in the end, I'm the one who gets things done around here!"

Indecision flashes quickly in Talia' eyes, and for a second Peter almost believes that she'll listen to reason and realize how useless this whole thing is, but the moment passes, and blind determination takes its place, and Peter can do little else but sigh in disappointment.

"We're _not_ killing a person without a good reason," she says, proclaims, as though she's imparting some great wisdom. "I don't care if it's an Omega or not."

Peter shakes his head, somehow still surprised by her inability to see the bigger picture. "Then deal with your bullshit on your own," he finally says, doing his best to rein in his temper. He meets her eyes, unblinkingly. "One day this will be your ruin, Talia. I hope you know that."

She looks down at her huge, distended belly, no doubts thinking about the rest of her brats, her family, her pack, and says nothing. It's what he expected. Talia knows he's right, understands that kindness and sweet words won't always be enough to protect a territory as large as theirs. Nevertheless, she won't say it — won't admit that if not her, someone will have to get their hands dirty to keep them alive.

They reach an impasse. It's an old one between them, and Peter doesn't expect a different outcome, although he still feels the same twinge of disappointment in his gut as always. Talia won't back down, and Peter won't show her how much he absolutely hates her for it.

Instead, he turns around and leaves. Leaves the preserve, their lands, the woods. Leaves and goes home, letting Talia make her own way back to her house. It's the best he can do — removing himself from the situation before he loses it, loses his reason and his veneer of civility.

* * *

As soon as he shoves his door open, Peter goes straight to his telephone and rips the cable from the wall. Fuck the world — Peter doesn't want to hear from anyone. Feeling the weight of it in his pocket, Peter fishes out his cellphone and takes great pleasure in turning it off, too. He doesn't bother checking the texts, the calls, the voice-messages, none of it — he just turns it off and throws the damn thing aside, not even bothering to look to see where it lands.

He closes the curtains and casts the whole apartment into darkness, breathing in relief at the lack of sunlight hitting his face. This is how it should be — this is what he needed.

If he could, Peter would dust wolfsbane in his windshields and his fucking door to keep them all away. He can't, though, so the phones will have to do, as far as petty acts of vengeance are concerned.

It doesn't matter. Peter is far too drained to give a shit about his place and his sister's — _his_ — pack. For now, sleep is all he wants and needs.

It would be incredible to throw himself onto his customised mattress and silk sheets, but one look at his disgusting state quickly forces Peter to reconsider the wiseness of that idea. Instead, he settles for the couch, dropping his dead weight face-first on it, perhaps hoping to smoother himself on the cushion.

It takes him no longer than two minutes to drift off into a restless sleep.

No rest for the wicked, indeed.

* * *

When he wakes up, Peter's mouth tastes like a sewer, his leg hurts from the awkward position he slept in, and there's a killer headache quickly diminishing his will to live. He feels even nastier than he had before falling asleep, and that hadn't seemed possible at the time.

God, Peter really hopes Talia is feeling twice as bad, wherever she is. She certainly deserves it.

Slowly, as though he's seventy, Peter drags his useless body to the bathroom, rips the clothes clinging to his skin, turns on the shower as hot as it can go, and gets in, mentally thanking his past-self for buying a stall with a long stone bench. Never let it be said that it wasn't money greatly spent, he thinks as he sits under the spray and tilts his head back, opening his mouth to drink a big mouthful of water.

Fuck it, he's a werewolf. The dirty water from his fancy shower will hardly come near from being the most disgusting thing he's ever drunk. Going to the kitchen to fetch water seems far too much hard work when there's plenty falling in his face right here.

No, Peter is good exactly where he is. The pressure of the hot water is hitting right where it hurts and the scent of his body scrub is comforting and calming. It does wonders for the aches in his body, and he might've been tempted to linger there forever, but the headache continues to throb in his head, and it's strong enough to get him moving.

What he needs now are a whole bottle of painkillers and enough food to make it go down. That's all. So he shrugs on a robe and fetches the white bottle from his cabinet before moving to the kitchen.

The coffee machine is almost calling his name, so Peter turns it on and goes to open the fridge, blindly grabbing whatever his hands can touch, way past the point of caring about what he'll eat to satisfy his hunger. If it's food; it will do.

It's when Peter is settling everything on the counter that he looks down and sees his phone lying on the floor, the screen cracked in half. Christ, had he really thrown the thing across the room yesterday? Wait, was that even yesterday? Which day is it? How many hours did he sleep?

Fuck. Maybe he should check. At least see if he had lost something important — if Talia hadn't gone and gotten herself eaten by some random monster in the woods. Yes, that seems prudent, Peter thinks, bending to pick up his wreck of a phone. He'll be lucky if the fucking thing still works.

Surprisingly, it does. Sipping on his freshly brewed coffee, Peter waits for the phone to come alive. It takes forever to do so, and the bright lights hurt his eyes, so he distracts himself by leaning forward and tipping the entire bottle of painkiller over the table, picking two tablets and downing them with a mouthful of piping hot ambrosia.

Coffee must count as enough sustenance to serve as a medium for the drug, right?

Nodding to himself, Peter turns back to his phone and has to blink to check if he's not imagining things. There are thirty-one missed calls, all of them from Stiles' home number.

Peter's heart locks between one beat and the next. Three calls mean he was missed, thirty missed calls mean something has happened.

For the love of— If something happened to Stiles, Peter is going to burn this city to the ground.

With shaky fingers, he calls the number back, mentally going over all the shit that can happen to a fragile kid left unsupervised. On the sixth ring, someone picks up the phone.

"Hello?" It's the sheriff.

"Where's Stiles? What happened to him?" Peter demands, his nostrils flared.

"Hale," the sheriff breaths, voice changing completely. He sounds frustrated, nearly angry. "Where the hell are you? Do you have any idea what time is it?"

What? Time? "Time?" He asks, turning to check, but the curtains are closed and all he can tell is that the sun has already gone down.

"Are you drunk? It's that it?"

God, Peter doesn't have it in himself to play today. "No, I'm not drunk. Now, where's Stiles? Where is my goddamn mate?"

"Your goddamn— You have some nerve, son. As a matter of fact, your mate is in his room, passed out after he cried himself to sleep because you promised to take him to see that stupid movie. Remember that, Hale?"

Shit. Shit. _Shit_.

Peter couldn't have slept for that long, could he? For fuck's sake, he had left the house to see Talia on Wednesday and— he took his phone off his ear and checked the date. Sure enough, there it was. Saturday.

20:38. Fucking Saturday.

"Fuck," Peter curses, speaking back into the phone. "How is—"

"How do you think? He's upset," the man says, sharply. "I don't appreciate you playing with my son like that."

"Don't," Peter growls, and he realises he's shaking. "You know that's not— I would never. Stiles is— I had to help Talia with a problem in the preserve. I lost track of time — but I wouldn't have gone if it hadn't been important."

There's a pause. "Did something happen?" He asks, and this time is less '_angry, protective parent_' and more '_suspicious sheriff_'.

Peter considers his answer for a moment. On one hand, he wants to explain and assure the man that he hadn't just ditched his mate for no reason; on the other hand, however, Peter is reticent about going into an in-depth explanation about the supernatural world with him. Yeah, he had told John and Claudia as much as he dared in an effort to sway their opinions on having an adult man following their child around. This is different, though.

In the end, he chooses to go with an uncomplicated truth. "We don't know, actually," he says, pressing two fingers into his temple and trying to get his headache to abate. "Someone transpassed on our territory and we don't know if they are just passing by or looking for trouble. That sort of thing is a big deal for our kind — territory and invaders."

"Should I be worried?"

It's a valid concern. "No. If this person is looking for trouble, it will definitely be our kind of trouble."

The sheriff exhales deeply. "Well, son, I hope whatever this mess is, it was worth it because Stiles is not a forgiving child," he says, sounding less troubled now. "He gets that from Claudia side of the family."

Awesome.

"I'm aware," Peter grunts. Of course his mate is not the forgiving type. Peter knows that, and usually, he even appreciates Stiles stubbornness, but today he has a fucking hole being drilled into his brain and the last thing he wants is to have to deal with a tantrum. "He's asleep, you said?"

"Yeah. After many hours of screams, let me tell you," he says. "I'm surprised you couldn't hear it from wherever you are — that's how loud he was."

Awesome.

_Fucking awesome_.

Peter sighs. "Okay. Shit. I apologise for leaving you to deal with this mess, Sheriff. I just— I'll go…" He means to say that he'll go there tomorrow and fix everything, but now that he knows his mate is upset, the bond is tugging uncomfortably in his chest and the thought of waiting until the next day to do something about it feels incomprehensible. "Actually, do you think—"

He stops, bites the words. Shit, how will that sound to a human? To a parent?

_Please, can I check on your sleeping child, maybe curl up with him?_

"Spit it out, son."

"Do you mind if I stop by in, say, half-an-hour?"

"I don't think so," the sheriff barks. "What part of sleeping did you fail to understand?"

Ugh, that's why Peter dislikes humans. Always so inflexible, so unaware of everything that's happening around them to such a degree that it borders on stupidity. He doesn't need to inform, or ask, to see his mate — he could just show up, unannounced. Surely, the man could see that?

_Do not entertain homicidal thoughts about the parents of your mate._

Peter tries again. "I wouldn't disturb him."

The sheriff huffs. "I'm sure." His voice is dry as a desert. "Maybe tomorrow you could—" He halts, and there's a noise in the background. "Wait a minute, Hale." He says. Muffled, as though the man is covering the phone with his hands, come the words. "What is it, Clau— I'm on the phone. Yes, it's Peter Hale. Ask him to come— Are you kidding me? No, I won't— Stiles is sleeping. What? When? Are you kidding me? No! Why—no. Fine! Fine, woman. I will!"

Peter grins, catching enough of the conversation to understand the gist of it.

Sure enough, the man returns to the phone, a defeated tone to his voice. "Come over," he orders. "Stiles is awake and asking for you. I swear to you, though, Hale, if you make my kid start to cry again, I'll shoot you out of this house. Understood?"

"Loud and clear, Sir," Peter agrees, even though a bullet would hardly deter him from staying with his mate. "I'll be there as fast as I can."

"Respect the speed limit," he grunts, then hangs up. Just like that.

Peter places the phone on the counter, drowns the rest of his coffee in one go alongside another two pills, rolls a piece of cold pizza and shoves the whole thing into his mouth, chews and swallows as quickly as he can. Then, he takes one deep breath. One satisfying breath.

It's all he allows himself before getting up and moving. He has some grovelling to do, and it wouldn't do to show up empty-handed. What Peter needs, it's a plan. Fast.

Luckily for him, improvisation has always been his strong suit.

* * *

Claudia is the one who opens the door for him, a fact for which Peter is grateful, as she, unlike the sheriff, actually likes him a great deal and will probably give him a few helpful tips on how to handle Stiles.

"Peter," she greets in a relieved puff of breath. Her clothes are wrinkled and from the look on her face and the birds' nest camouflaging as her hair, she was the one who took the brunt of Stiles little show.

For a weird, fleeting moment, Peter feels something that might be jealousy and it shocks him. It's fast, but it's unmistakably there. Yes, he does feel a tiny bit jealous that he missed the show of temper of his mate and Claudia was there to see it. Undoubtedly, Stiles must be a true sight when he's furious, and Peter wishes he had been there to witness it. To stand back and watch as his mate showed his other side. Were there tears — of frustration, of anger, of sadness, of betrayal? Was he prone to violence, to hiding away, to running, to screaming?

What were Stiles' darker urges, Peter wonders? If they are, indeed, alike, then it truly must have been quite something to see.

"Good evening," Peter says, showing nothing about this wandering thoughts. "I believe I must apologise for the situation I created. How is Stiles?"

She all but pulls him inside the house, closing the door softly behind him. "Don't you dare ever do this again, Peter Hale," she hisses lowly, although she doesn't sound very angry. Tired, perhaps. "John is upstairs with Stiles, trying to give him a bath. He asked for juice, then made a mess of himself. This day has _not_ been funny."

Peter believes her. Honestly, his day hasn't been any better. His head is still aching and the last thing he needs is a dose of screaming right now.

"Trust me, this won't happen again," he promises, scratching his chest absentmindedly. The tugging just keeps getting worse with the proximity. "We can talk later — as much as you'd like. I really need to see him now."

Claudia nods, sighing. "Yeah, of course. Go. He's in his room," she says, running a hand through her messy hair and wincing. "Honestly, I'm just glad you're finally here. I didn't know the bond would affect him so much."

"I'm not sure it's a side effect of the bond," Peter murmurs under his breath. He's reasonably sure this is Stiles showing exactly how unhappy he is — it doesn't seem like a reaction to the bond.

It doesn't matter, though. He nods at Claudia and goes up the stairs, following the voice of his mate to his room. John has a towel thrown over his shoulder and the expression of someone who is about to snap.

Peter's eyes slide down, as if drawn, to check on his mate. His very upset mate, who is screaming about hating showers.

Which he doesn't — Stiles loves water.

"Did someone call for me?" Peter calls from the doorway, making both heads snap in his direction with the sound of his voice.

Let's just say it isn't a warm welcoming.

For someone who had been crying and begging for him, Stiles doesn't look very happy to see Peter. In fact, he looks downright pissed off that Peter had dared to show his face after so many hours.

The moment he sees him, he looks torn between coming closer to actually hit Peter or running away, stomping his feet to show Peter all of his displeasure. If the situation wasn't so dire and the displeasure wasn't rolling off of his mate in waves, maybe Peter would have found it to be very funny — the very adult frown on his tiny little mate who couldn't really manage to look scary if his life depended on it.

As it is, however, Peter is already treading on very thin ice, so he kneels on the floor and stares at Stiles, eye to eye. Watching, observing.

Peter doesn't smile, doesn't show any sign of happiness. They are both having a crappy day — it should be respected as such. "Hello, Stiles."

"Go away!" Stiles screams at him.

"I just got here," Peter points out, raising his arm, he shows the box in his hand. "Are you sure you want me to go? I got you something."

"I don't want it!" His mouth says no, but his eyes shift to the box and they stay there. It's clear that he's curious about what it is, even though he doesn't want to admit it.

The sheriff starts to ooze disapproval, but Peter ignores it for now.

Who said Peter was above blatant bribery, anyway? "You don't? Should I add — unnecessarily, I might say — that it's batman themed?" He says, but it's a wrong, wrong move. Stiles eyes narrow and he takes a step forward.

"Where were you?" He demands. A sharp order, falling from his lips with such ease that Peter has to blink, to wait for it to settle to believe it.

Suddenly, he wants to say it. Wants to snap back, to provoke.

"Why, thank you for asking," he drawls, placing the box on the floor. "A stranger entered my sister's land. She called me to help — she's due any day now, it's not like she's in a condition to deal with it on her own. Can you understand that?"

He can. Stiles understands it perfectly and he doesn't give a shit. "You said you'd come," he says, forehead creased. "You said we were going to see Cars. You promised me."

Oh, how Peter loathes that fucking Disney series. Whoever invented that goddamn awful talking car should rot in hell for the rest of eternity. The point stills stands, though — he had promised to take him.

"I did," he admits. An idea pops into his brain, and it's insane, but Peter is tired and his head hurts and he's willing to try anything if it vanishes the hard glint in Stiles' eyes. So, all so slowly, he lowers his eyes and tilts his head to the side, baring his neck in a discreet way. "You're right, kid. I'm sorry."

It's not complete submission, and Stiles is in no position to do many things about it, and yet...

Silence holds for a few breaths, and Peter starts to regret doing this. The sheriff draws a sharp breath, but Stiles isn't saying anything and it starts to get weird. There's no proof that the bond affects Stiles enough to get him to respond to the gesture of submission. It's a wolf thing — a huge wolf thing, but a wolf thing nevertheless.

Before he can lift his head and give up on the whole apology, his mate leaves his place and walks until he's standing right in front of Peter, inside his personal space, their faces nearly touching. There's a solemnity to the moment, and Peter's heart begins to pound inside his chest — from anticipation, from anxiety, from a deep need of _something_.

And then, somehow, unbelievably, Stiles leans closer and tilts his head until he's breathing against the skin on Peter's neck. Still, he says nothing, shows nothing. And Peter, who had never publicly submitted to anyone — not even to Talia, not even to his own mother — stays where he is, frozen in place by some weird instinct coursing through his veins.

It's not the anger, it's not the situation, it's not his headache, and it's not the apology. Something else keeps Peter in place, soft and pliable, baring his neck, waiting for a decision from his six-years-old mate, who's not even a werewolf. His hands start to tremble, and he wonders how long this will last, how long it had already lasted — if it's only him who feels as though it's been forever since he submitted.

As if hearing his thoughts, Stiles decides. He closes the infinite distance between them to place the barest of kisses right at the top of his neck. It's gentle, his lips warm against his pulse, and Peter's mouth goes dry.

This isn't how it's supposed to go. When a wolf submits, they are either rejected or they receive a bite, a claim. A kiss was never within the options — it's too affectionate, too sentimental, too mushy for wolves.

So why does it feel _right_?

Why is his heart threatening to burst out of his chest?

Stiles' mouth is still resting in its place, pressing against Peter's skin, and it feels more possessive than any sharp teeth — claims him more thoroughly than any bite ever could.

"Stiles?" Peter whispers shakily. Asking, waiting for directions on how to proceed from now on.

Apparently, the words are all the permission his mate had been waiting for, because as soon as they are uttered, Stiles sags in his arms and starts to cry. Not loudly and high-pitched, but nearly silent tears and a whole-body tremble. The smell of salty water hits Peter's nose, a mix of acid and bitter, and the world starts turning again, sliding back into place.

Without a pause, Peter scoops up his mate into his arms and stands up, letting Stiles shove his face into the crook of his neck and wrap his legs around his torso and cling to his shirt and breathe in his scent and cry his tears.

"Yo—you w—weren't here," his kid mumbles weakly.

Peter closes his eyes. "I know. I know, kiddo."

Stiles rubs his nose on Peter's neck. "Don't l—leave m—m—me," he begs, and it becomes clear what all the tears are — were ever — about. The scent of fear is so heavy on his mate that it's hard to even smell his own, natural scent underneath it.

"Gosh, kid. Don't do this. Please." Peter knows he sounds tortured, and he is. This is torture for him. "I should've been here, I know. You don't need to be afraid, though." He looks over Stiles' shoulder and sees the sheriff, who's looking at him with an unreadable face, eyebrows raised, still holding a towel. He gestures to it. "How does a shower sound, hun?"

Stiles clings harder. "Don't wanna. Don't— I—I won't—"

"I won't let go, Stiles. I'm here, 'kay?"

Mentioning to the bathroom with his head, Peter starts to move, confident that the man will follow him across the hall.

He walks in, turns on the lights. "Hey, kiddo. We're here."

"Will you…"

"I'll sit right here, how about that?" Peter points to the toilet and raises a brow, daring Stiles to say it's not close enough. Shit, it's a small bathroom — they'll be within touching distance if they stretch.

"Okay, but don't leave," he mumbles, but dutifully slides down from Peter's arms without a word of complaint.

As a reward, Peter sits on the toilet and watches as Stiles shrugs out of his dirty clothes and into the shower, closing the curtain only enough to keep the water from going everywhere, his eyes always nervously shifting back to Peter — to make sure he's still there, still watching. Which he is. Peter is doing nothing but that, at the moment.

Stiles is only skin and Peter's necklace hanging from his neck and nothing in the world would be able to take his attention. His mate demands all his focus, and Peter will give it gladly.

So he stares — aware that the sheriff is standing at the door, studying them, probably examining Peter's every move, ready to ship him to the furthest away prison at the first hint of inappropriateness, but past the point of caring about such thing. He does want Stiles, beyond words, in a way that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the bond pulsating between them, bright and hot and fierce and so overwhelming it distracts Peter from his headache, from it all.

The sheriff will believe what he wants; Peter is busy soaking in the presence of his other half.

"Peter?" Stiles calls when he ducks under the spray of water.

Peter's mouth curves upwards in a gentle, fond smile. "Still here, kid."

"Okay. Don't leave."

"I'm not leaving. I'm right here." He pauses. "Stiles, I'll always be right here. Remember the talk we had about the necklace?"

Stiles turns off the water and opens the curtain. "Yep," he says, touching the chain with his fingers. "It means you bel—"

"So I'll always be here," Peter cuts off, making a point. "A missed phone call and a day away shouldn't — _can't_ — change that."

His mate pouts but nods in agreement. "Towel," he demands, opening his arms.

Peter turns to the sheriff, thinking the man would hand it to his son, only to be shocked when he drops the item in Peter's hand, giving him what seems to be a significant look before disappearing down the stairs, leaving him with Stiles. Alone.

_Christ_.

This day.

"Come here, baby," Peter calls, beckoning Stiles with his hand. Once the kid stops in front of him, Peter begins to pat him dry, ever so slow and carefully. It feels important, somehow, despite knowing that Stiles is perfectly capable of doing this on his own.

It gives him time to connect, to study and learn.

"Let's not do this again, alright?" Peter pleads once he's done. "Heart-to-hearts aren't my thing, kiddo, even if it's with you. I swear you're stuck with me until you are grey and old — nothing will change that."

Stiles nods. "But pick up my calls. Promise! Swear it!" He demands, oozing seriousness. He raises his pinky. "Pinky swear it!"

"Jeez, okay. Alright." Peter curls their pinkies together. "I'll get you a cellphone so you may call me in an emergency. It's probably for the best, anyway."

"A cool one! I want a cool phone."

"Sure. The store ought to have some weird kid version."

"Peter!"

"What? They'll have it. God forbid I buy you an actual stylish phone, or whatever. Much better to have a Superman, or Batman, or Cars, or Dora the Explorer one."

"I'm too old for Dora the Explorer! I'm six!"

Peter rolls his eyes, picking up Stiles after he finishes putting on his PJs. "Six? Oh, forgive me then. Far too old for Dora, of course."

"Thank you," Stiles agrees, yawning hugely after the words, the stress of the day hitting him at once.

"Bed for you, mister. It's way past your bedtime, I'm afraid."

"Stay with me?" His mate begs, already snuggling up and wrapping himself all over Peter.

It's not like Peter is about to deny him. "Anything you want, kiddo," he agrees, kicking his shoes off and turning off the lights of the room as he goes, stepping over the box he left on the floor, and sliding into Stiles' bed, lying on his back to feel his mate's welcoming weight on his chest. The cold onyx presses up against Peter's sternum and that's comforting, too.

"I'm sorry for crying earlier," Stiles whispers in the dark, sneaking his hand under Peter's shirt as he always does these days, keeping the skin-to-skin contact.

"You don't have to apologise for feeling things, baby. I just don't want there to be any misunderstandings between us. Are we good?"

"Peter?" Stiles whispers in lieu of an answer. The words are spoken right into Peter's ear. "I love you."

Goddammit.

_Fuck_.

Stiles' heart stays nice and steady as he says the words, relaxed and obvious to the mess happening inside Peter's brain as he registers the truth of Stiles' feelings. He does love Peter.

His mate — his perfect, tiny mate — loves him, Peter Hale.

It sounds too good to be real, and maybe he's still dreaming on his couch, at home, and his fucked-up mind is coming up with this to torment him, but still… Peter wants to say it back, to hear himself say it, to figure out if he feels it too, if he's not tricking himself, if he's capable of—

But he looks to the side, and Stiles is fast asleep.

The moment is gone. Passed.

Peter takes a deep breath, then another, then one more. Stiles deserves his sleep and Peter is pretty tired, as well. It wouldn't make sense to wake up the kid just to say that maybe he too—

No.

_Tomorrow_, he thinks. _Tomorrow he'll do it_.


End file.
